


The Hits Keep Coming

by MindfulWrath



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Achievement Hunter Heists, Asphyxiation, Bloodplay, Car Accidents, Cheating, Disembowelment, Dismemberment, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fake AH Crew, Gaslighting, Gun Violence, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Manipulation, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, Stalking, Torture, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 10:25:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12909966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: At first I was like “I wanna get on that good good Jeremwood train” and then my brain punched me in the face and wentFUCK YOU.Also I’ve been watching a lot of the Hitman Let’s Watches and I was intrigued by the dynamic of Gavin coaching Ryan through what the fuck to do.Also also thanks to @jrmwds on tumblr for getting me on the Jeremwood train. Now you all know WHO TO BLAME (I kid, of course).





	1. The Hits Keep Coming

If you told most people in Los Santos that the Vagabond heard voices, they would believe you.

If you told anyone that the Vagabond took orders, they'd laugh at you, and also most likely refrain from standing between you and any large windows.

Nonetheless, both are true.

 _"There's another corridor up ahead,"_ Gavin says. _"Take the left when you get there."_

To be clear: _Ryan_ does not take orders. Ryan is a strong, independent, well-adjusted man who has never been wrong about anything, ever. But the Vagabond is not the same entity, and the Vagabond's temperament is not well-suited to infiltration. If left to his own devices, he'd simply kill everyone and be done with it. No survivors = no witnesses. It's very simple mathematics.

This is fine, because Gavin's temperament is not well suited to getting blood on his hands, but he is surprisingly patient, meticulous, and level-headed when it's not his own life on the line.

 _"Pair of guards coming up on your right, hold tight for a bit, V,"_ he says. The Vagabond crouches behind a stack of crates, listening to the footsteps and the idle chatter.

"All I'm saying is, I think he might be _literally_ colorblind," says one.

"Ah, it can't be _that_ bad."

"It's an atrocity."

"Well, hey, c'mon now, what he does with his hair is his business."

"I don't know how he didn't get _fired_ for that shit. It's fuckin' unprofessional. You'll see."

The voices fade into the distance. The Vagabond waits.

 _"You're clear,"_ Gavin says in his earpiece. _"Follow them, see if you can get a card off one of 'em."_

He rises like smoke, slips down the hallway with a silenced pistol held down by his thigh. The lab corridors are clean and sterile, humming with the busy work of ten thousand machines. He's always had a fondness for laboratory environments. There's so much _potential_ there.

 _"Hold it,"_ says Gavin. _"Those two weren't on rounds, they're replacing a couple other blokes on the door. Get in cover."_

The Vagabond looks around. There isn't any cover nearby. He darts across the hallway and presses his back to the wall, bringing the pistol up.

 _"No no, nope, just get back down the corridor!"_ Gavin says, his voice rising to a squeak. _"Run! Runrunrun!"_

He lets out a breath through his nose and hurries back the way he came.

_"You won't make it all the way there. Door to your right, go in, now!"_

He throws himself at the door. It gives. He rushes inside—a bathroom. He plasters himself to the wall just inside the door, gun at the ready. Again, voices approach, but Gavin is calm and steady in his ear.

 _"Uff, that was close,"_ he sighs. _"Just hope neither of 'em needs to have a piss after—oh, bollocks."_

He doesn't need to ask what's just gone wrong, because the bathroom door opens, letting in the chatter. He's already taking aim, bracing his wrist to keep the shot from going wide.

 _"Hold,"_ Gavin says through his teeth.

A short man comes in, broad at the shoulders and narrow at the waist. His hair is an absolute _atrocity_ —purple on top, orange on the sides, so bright it makes the Vagabond's eyes hurt. He goes straight for a urinal and doesn't see the intruder standing there in his fucking leather jacket and skull mask, with his fucking silenced pistol and six knives in his belt.

 _"You'll have to kill him,"_ says Gavin. _"His mate's hanging about outside. So actually make that both of them. See if you can get to a better place whilst he's pissing."_

The Vagabond switches cover, putting his back against the stalls instead of the wall. The guard is talking to himself, masking the sound of the Vagabond's movements.

"And _everybody's_ jealous," he's saying. "Just 'cuz they can't pull it off. _Huh._ What a bunch of losers."

He finishes his business, goes to wash his hands. The Vagabond just stands there. The guy—kid, really, he's awfully smooth around the face—must be totally engrossed in his own little world.

Gavin is gurgling in his earpiece, tickled pink.

 _"See if you can't drown him in the bog,"_ he snickers. _"It'll be hilarious."_

"It's called _fashion,_ assholes, look it up," the kid mutters to himself, drying his hands. He looks up—finally—and sees the Vagabond in the mirror.

He plasters himself to the wall, gasping. There's a gun in his belt and he doesn't go for it. His eyes are wide as dinner plates, his face pale as death. The Vagabond watches him, unmoving.

"It—it—it—" the kid stammers. "Ooo _ooohhh my God."_

 _"Kiss him,"_ Gavin says.

The Vagabond hesitates.

 _"V, kiss him,"_ Gavin insists. There's no hint of humor in his voice. It's an order. The Vagabond takes it.

He puts one hand on the kid's chest and shoves him up against the wall. The other hand tugs the mask back, and off, and their lips meet. The mask falls to the floor with a sweaty _thwap._

The kid's a good kisser. Startled at first, and then really, _really_ into it. It's the luckiest day of his goddamn life. Somewhere underneath all the paint and blood and leather, Ryan wonders how long this kid's had a hard-on for the Vagabond. Must be like a dream come true.

 _"Good,"_ says Gavin. _"Had to get in close quarters to muffle the sound, since his mate's right outside. Shoot him."_

The Vagabond takes orders.

The silenced pistol swings up and nuzzles against the kid's heart. His finger is on the trigger. The kid goes rigid, squealing against his lips, hands clutching on the leather jacket.

Ryan does _not._

He pulls back, slow, meets the kid's eyes. Gavin is squawking in his earpiece, but Gavin is a nuisance at all times and Ryan's learned how to tune him out. It helps not to have the mask on.

"Listen up, Atrocity in Color," he says softly, holding the kid's terrified gaze. "I'm supposed to be killing you right now. But I'm not gonna. Instead I'm gonna ask you: are you gonna tell anybody what went down here today? And bear in mind: you're _real_ distinctive-looking."

The kid shakes his head so fast it rattles his teeth. Ryan kisses him again, a little reward for his obedience.

"That's good," he says. Gavin's still nattering on, calling him all _sorts_ of gibberish names.

"Uh," says the kid. "Am—am I—are you—because I got—uh—"

"Name," says Ryan.

"Jeremy!" the kid squeaks. Ryan kisses him again. He melts, kissing like it's the last thing he's ever going to do. The pistol is still pressed to his heart.

 _"You useless bloody bell-end!"_ Gavin's snarling. _"Quit snogging and get back to it!"_

Ryan breaks off, because there _is_ work to be done, after all. Then, because Gavin's still yelling at him, and Gavin's a mingy little prick, he goes back in for one more. Just to annoy him.

"Not a word, Jeremy," Ryan says.

"Yep," says Jeremy. In another situation, that tone of stunned, breathless admiration would have earned him at least one orgasm on Ryan's courtesy. As it is, Ryan just steps back.

"Now get the fuck out," he says.

Jeremy runs for it.

 _"V, for fuck's sake!"_ Gavin squeals. _"At least peg him in the back of the head on his way out!"_

"That's not how pegging works," Ryan snickers, picking his mask up and shaking it out.

 _"It—wot?"_ says Gavin, thrown for a loop. Ryan doesn't usually respond to him, and the Vagabond never does.

"Hm? Nothing," says Ryan. He pulls the mask on and his voice drops an octave. "Keep going."

 _"Too bloody gay to function,"_ Gavin mutters.

"Heard that," says the Vagabond.

 _"Right,"_ says Gavin. _"All right, back to it, lads. Outside this room there's a couple of pricks leggin' it down the corridor. You'll have to pop 'em both."_

The Vagabond pushes open the door. Sure enough, Jeremy and the other guard are hurrying off down the hallway, Jeremy somewhat unsteadily.

"Dude, just trust me on this one, we gotta go like _right the fuck now,"_ Jeremy's saying.

 _"Them two! Bag 'em!"_ Gavin insists.

The gun swings up. The Vagabond takes aim.

The gunshots are not loud. Both bodies hit the floor.

 _"Oaugh, God,"_ Gavin laughs. _"That was bloody brutal, that was! Quick, drag 'em back into the bog before somebody finds them."_

The Vagabond does as he is told.

Somewhere underneath all of it, somewhere under the blood, and the leather, and the guns and the face paint and the knives, Ryan realizes something.

 _"Well done, V!"_ Gavin chirps, as the Vagabond finishes stuffing Jeremy's corpse into a bathroom stall. _"Check his pockets, see if he's got a card or something. We'll need one of them."_

Gavin is the coldest motherfucker on the face of the planet.


	2. Just With My Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may recognize the first half of this from a previous posting; however, the second half has been rewritten to remove harmful stereotypes. I apologize for not doing it right the first time, and for any hurt or discomfort I may have caused.

Gavin doesn't fully realize just how badly he's fucked up until the mask comes off.

Ryan bursts into the penthouse in full storm, rips the mask off and throws it aside. He comes after Gavin like a freight train. He's covered in blood and sweat and gunpowder. The whole flat rattles with his footsteps.

He's been crying.

Gavin squawks and scrambles back, flattens himself against the wall. His eyes dart. He clambers around the back of the TV just before Ryan gets to him. Ryan shoves the whole cabinet over—TV, Xbox, Blu-Ray player, all smash on the floor with a _thud_ that judders the windows.

With a scream, Gavin flees for the kitchen. Ryan catches him by the throat before he gets two steps, slams him back into the wall. His feet dangle. He can't breathe.

 _Ryan—!_ he chokes, the red-hot heel of Ryan's hand crushing his Adam's apple against his spine.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ryan demands. His voice cracks, shaking. Gavin's never seen him so angry. He clutches Ryan's wrist, kicking uselessly while his tongue and eyes swell up.

 _Ghkhh!_ he says. He taps Ryan's wrist frantically. Ryan pulls him back just to slam him into the wall again. Gavin's ears start ringing.

"You think this is fucking funny? You think this is fucking _cute,_ Gavin?"

All that comes out is a high-pitched whistle as Gavin struggles to breathe. Panic claws at his chest, the amygdaloid gut-punch terror of onrushing death. His heels beat a desperate rhythm against the wall, his fingernails dig into Ryan's skin.

Calm people live. Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic. Calm people live.

Through the narrowing tunnel of his vision, he meets Ryan's eyes—bloodshot, tear-stained, burning with fury—and forces his scrabbling hands to cup Ryan's cheeks instead. He wipes the tears with trembling thumbs. He can't stop his feet from kicking, but all his muscles are turning to jelly anyway. A roaring fills his ears. He can't feel his fingers. His diaphragm heaves at nothing. The only thing he can see are those eyes, those blue blue eyes, watching him die.

Just before he blacks out, Ryan drops him.

Gavin crumples, coughing and wheezing and retching. He shakes so hard it's a wonder he doesn't buzz. Ryan's still right there, still looming. Gavin starts to crawl away from him and Ryan reels back to kick him. Gavin throws up his hands and presses his shoulder to the wall.

"Not the face!" he squeaks.

"Explain," Ryan orders, and he's _wrecked._ _"Now."_

"Ryan, listen to me, Ryan," says Gavin. "He saw your face! Nobody gets to see your face and live!"

"Makes things real damn _unfortunate_ for you, doesn't it," he growls. There's a knife in his hand. A panicked laugh bubbles out through Gavin's lips and he raises his hands a little higher, pleading.

"Except me!" he says. "It wasn't _personal,_ love, it—"

"Don't _call me that!"_ he roars, and Gavin flinches, and Ryan, the perfect _idiot,_ hesitates.

"I'm sorry," Gavin whimpers, pressing his advantage. He allows his voice shake just as much as it wants to, his hands to tremble. The fear is real, even if the helplessness is not.

"I just—want—a reason," Ryan says. He has to gasp for breath. The point of the knife draws silver squiggles in the air.

"Because that's the _business,_ love," Gavin says, peeking up between his upraised hands at Ryan. The blue eyes are bloodshot. There are tears on his face. "I did _tell_ you you'd have to kill him. I said! It's not _my_ fault if you went against instructions. Had to improvise after that, didn't I. You might've been killed!"

"He wasn't going to hurt me." His voice is choked. The aggression is bleeding out of his stance, his hand loosening on the knife. That'll be the doubt, catching up with him.

Gavin has spent a long time building the foundations of this house.

He braces his shoulder against the wall and slowly slides up it until he's standing again. Ryan doesn't go for him, which wasn't a sure bet. He stretches out a hand and Ryan recoils.

"Don't touch me," Ryan snaps. The hand clenches on the knife again. Gavin cowers, surrendering.

"Look, I've done my best," he protests. "I've done my bit of the job, Ryan, just like I always do. If you go off-script like that, yeah, it's gonna go tits-up."

"Stop . . . just stop," Ryan says, shaking his head. He shut his eyes and turns his face away. Gavin seizes his opportunity.

In one fluid step he slips right up to Ryan and cups his face in his hands again. Ryan goes rigid. The knife flicks up. The point pricks between two of Gavin's ribs. Gavin flinches, but he doesn't let go.

It probably saves his life.

"Ryan, love," he murmurs. He wipes the tears off his face. The knife is still poking him in the side, quivering with tension. One sharp shove and Gavin will be down a lung. "I'm sorry this's happened, but honestly, you can't blame me. I thought you were done for! I couldn't risk getting you hurt."

"You're _lying_ to me," Ryan says miserably.

"Nah, come off it," says Gavin. He slides his hand down Ryan's arm, encouraging him to lower the knife. It takes a little more encouraging than he'd like, but he manages to push Ryan's hand back down to his side, and then to take the knife from him, and then to chuck it aside.

"He was. . . ." Ryan whispers, and breaks off. Another tear slides down his cheek. Gavin wipes it away.

"You've only set yourself up for heartbreak," he says. "This is why you can't go about kissing blokes who aren't me. I'm the only one who's gonna bloody survive it, en't I?"

"You—you _told_ me to," Ryan says, pulling away from him.

"Wot?" says Gavin. "Nah, come off it, I never."

"Yes you _did._ I remember you saying—"

"You think you remember, love," Gavin says kindly. He eases his way in again. "Your mind plays its little tricks on you, especially when you're being V. That's why you've got me. That's why you _always_ listen to Gavvy."

The only trick Ryan's mind has ever played on him is convincing him that Gavin's trustworthy. There's no such person as the Vagabond, but it simply wouldn't do to let Ryan believe that. The crazier he thinks he is, the easier it gets.

"I—but I _did,_ you _said—"_

Progress has been slow.

"Shh, easy," says Gavin. "Let's forget all about this, yeah? All in the past, no harm done."

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut again. His hand starts to reach for another knife—he has half a dozen still. Before it can get there, Gavin leans in and presses a kiss to his lips. Ryan recoils immediately.

"Don't—" he tries. Gavin puts a hand on the back of his head and pulls him back in. He's gentle, but firm. He keeps hold of Ryan until he stops trying to pull away.

"There we are," Gavin says gently, as Ryan settles into cow-eyed docility. "See? Everything's fine, when you listen to Gavvy."

Ryan says nothing. Gavin kisses him again, looping his arms around his neck.

"Job well done, though," Gavin continues. "Maybe you'd like a cheeky little reward, before Mum and Dad and Michael get back? Hm? Just a cheeky little toss. Take the edge off."

"Fine," Ryan says dully.

"You'll feel better afterwards," Gavin promises, leading him backwards towards the bedroom. "You always do." He never does."Plus, you can make it up to me for the absolute tantrum Geoff'll pitch when he sees what you've done to his gubs."

"Sorry," he says.

He puts up no resistance as Gavin takes him to the bedroom. Geoff and Jack and Michael won't be there for an hour, at least, which will give Gavin time to think up an excuse for the shattered entertainment center. He settles onto the bed and pulls Ryan down on top of him. This interaction is well-rehearsed enough that Ryan doesn't need much coaching. Gavin keeps talking him through it anyway, just for the sound of his own voice.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, one hand tangled in Ryan's hair, his head tilted back in bliss. "Tease it."

And Ryan, for once, does exactly what he's told.


	3. These Things Come In Threes

"All right, what the _fuck?"_ Geoff yells, stopping two steps inside the door. The whole entertainment center is smashed all over the floor. Gavin's lounging on the couch with a tumbler of bourbon and a cigarette. He smiles at Geoff as Jack and Michael come in and survey the wreckage.

"Allo, Geoff!" Gavin chirps. "Hi Jack, hiya Michael-my-boi!"

"Gavin, what the fuck did you do?" Michael demands, looking about as steamed as Geoff feels.

"Ah, yeah," Gavin says, leaning his head on the back of the couch. "Things might've got a _bit_ heated. It's all fine now."

"You fucking idiot," Jack says, shaking her head and moving into the kitchen.

"A _bit?"_ Geoff says. "You call that _a bit heated?_ What the _fuck,_ Gavin? That's my stuff! That's my shit!"

"Ah, you can take it out of my cut," Gavin says, waving his cigarette lazily. Geoff suspects he hasn't even been smoking it, just letting it burn in his hand for the _look_ of the thing. The mincey little prick.

"Oh, you bet your twiggy ass I will," Geoff says. "Where's Ryan?"

"Havin' a kip," Gavin says, cocking his head towards the bedroom.

_"Oaw,_ goddammit!" Geoff cries. "All right, that's it, next fuckin' heist, we're using _your_ place, so you can get all _your_ shit smashed and _dick-suck_ stains all over _your_ fuckin' bed."

"Gross," says Michael. He flops down on the couch and kicks his feet up onto Gavin's leg, drapes one arm over the back of the couch and one on the arm.

"That's, ehhhhhh, homophobic?" Gavin says primly.

"You fuckin' dumbass, nobody in the room is straight," Michael says, rolling his eyes.

"Well, I'm gay and it hurts my feelings," says Gavin.

"I fucking hate you both," Geoff grumbles. He stumps into the kitchen and grabs a coke out of the fridge. "But _especially_ Gavin. You fuckin' . . . dick-suckin' dick-slut."

"C'mon, Geoff, it's one load of laundry," Jack says, rolling her eyes.

"It's _not,"_ Geoff says, jabbing a finger at her. "It's every time I try and go to bed, I have to think about fuckin' _Gavin_ goin' _hurkle-gurkle_ all over my fuckin' bed!"

"Ah, classic," Gavin says, grinning. He raises his glass to Geoff and takes a long drink.

"I bet he can't even get to the fuckin' base," Michael says, poking Gavin in the stomach with his toe. "With that fuckin' proboscis in the way."

"It's always the _nose,"_ Gavin says, baffled and hurt. "Why d'you always go for the nose?"

"Low-hanging fruit," Jack says, deadpan. Michael bursts out laughing, and Gavin makes a face like a cat that's been dunked in smelly water. Even Geoff has to chuckle, just for that.

_"Oh!"_ Michael gasps, clutching his belly. "Oh, _man,_ you walked right into that one! You walked the fuck right into it, nose-first!"

Gavin mumbles something under his breath and presses the lit cigarette to Michael's jeans. Michael yelps and kicks it—and the glass tumbler—out of Gavin's hands.

"Quit breaking my shit!" Geoff yells, as the tumbler smashes on the floor and bourbon goes everywhere. He wasn't going to drink it, but _fuck,_ it's a hideous waste. That was good booze. He's more upset about the bourbon than the glass.

_"He_ broke this one!" Gavin squawks, pointing an accusing finger at Michael.

"Fuck you!" Michael retorts, shoving him to the other end of the couch. "You tried to fuckin' set me on fire!"

"Boys," Jack warns.

Down the hallway, the bedroom door opens.

All four of them freeze.

Ryan looks like a mess. His hair's all fucked up, and he's not looking at anybody, and he hasn't showered. He's still smudged with blood and gunpowder, black and red paint all over his face. That's the big one, the way Geoff knows that something's up. After the mask, the face paint is always the first thing to go.

"Hey, uh, buddy," Geoff says carefully, as Ryan shuffles into the main room. "How'd the uh—how'd the thing go? You get your guy? You get the stuff?"

Ryan shoves a memory stick into Geoff's hand, barely pausing on his way to the door.

"Ryan," Gavin whines. "Where're you going, Ryan?"

"Out," Ryan says shortly. He slams the door behind him. Silence rings in his wake.

"Jeez," Geoff says. The memory stick sweats in his hand and he tucks it into his pocket. "How many bees does he have up _his_ asshole?"

"A shitton, apparently," says Jack. "Gavin, when you said things got heated, I mean. . . ."

"Just a smedge," Gavin allows. "Juuuuust a smiggity sme—a smeggit—wot?"

"You get a little too toothy when you were blowin' him or somethin'?" Michael sniggers.

"All _right,"_ Gavin says, offended. "Will you bloody lay off?"

"Yeah, Michael, leave ole Bite-Job McGurkle alone," says Geoff.

"I'll kill you," Gavin pouts. It's about as intimidating as being threatened by a kitten.

"Aw, of course you will, buddy," says Geoff, smiling at him.

Gavin mutters something under his breath that's at least half made-up words. Michael snorts and puts his feet up on Gavin's leg again. Geoff shakes his head and finally cracks open his soda.

"So who's gonna clean up my fucking apartment?" he demands.

"Gavin," Michael and Jack say simultaneously.

_"Oauw,_ why?!" Gavin cries.

"What the fuck do _mean, why?_ 'Cuz you fucked it up, you fuckin' idiot!"

"No I didn't! That was Ryan!"

"Oh, _sure_ it was, uh-huh," says Geoff.

"Yeah, totally unprovoked," Jack says, rolling her eyes. "Not your fault at all."

"It wasn't, guys!" Gavin whines. "You know sometimes he gets stuck in bloody murder-mode, it's not _my_ fault! He nearly killed me!"

"You probably deserved it," says Jack.

Gavin makes a terribly pitiful face. Michael rolls his eyes and gets to his feet.

"Fine, whatever, I'll fuckin' do it," he says. "Since _nobody else_ is enough of an adult."

"Thanks, Michael-my-boi," Gavin says.

"What—just do it your fucking self!" Michael cries. His voice squeaks up into that rage-quit register it finds whenever he's losing Mario Kart. "Don't sit there on your ass going _fanks, Moichal my boi_ like some kinda fuckin'—fuck you. Just fuck you, Gavin. God, you're fucking insufferable."

"I love you, boi," Gavin says meekly.

"Eat a dick," says Michael, getting the broom and dustpan out of the water-heater closet.

"Preeeeeetty sure he already did," Jack mentions.

"All right, _look,"_ Gavin snaps, actually properly annoyed now. "If you won't bloody lay off, I'll set Ryan on you. And then, you'll all be sucking knobs in Hell, yeah?"

Geoff laughs so hard it doubles him over. He has to put the soda down so he doesn't spill it. Jack is shaking her head, less than amused.

"Gavin, you're a fucking cunt," Michael says, sweeping up glittering lines of broken glass.

"Oh, _God,"_ Geoff wheezes. _"Hoooh!_ I just—I'd pay to see that. I'd pay _money_ to see you try and swing that. He'd wring your dumb little neck!"

Gavin is not laughing. Gavin is not amused.

"Bloody show you, won't I," he mutters.

"Yeah you will, buddy," says Geoff, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes. "Yeah, sure you will."


	4. In The Red

Once you get out of Los Santos and onto the highway, it's pretty easy to go real goddamn fast.

Ryan teases the throttle, edging up to eighty, then eighty-five, then ninety. The glittering lights of the city shrink in the rear windows of the cars ahead of him. There's not much traffic, but there's enough. He weaves in and out, cutting it too close, never checking his mirrors or his blind spots. Horns doppler away behind him, momentary shrieks in the night. The Akuma growls, eating up the flat desert road.

Faster. Faster. Ninety-five, a hundred. The engine's running hot, deafening. Red and white lights blur in his vision. His breath fogs the visor of his helmet. He whips into the HOV lane and scrapes the knee of his jeans on the concrete divider. He can still taste Gavin in the back of his throat.

Faster. Faster.

He swerves around a minivan and takes the side mirror off a Prius. Sparks zip past and a sharp pain splinters through his elbow. There's a wide stretch of open road ahead. Ryan guns it.

The Akuma surges forward, bucking up so sharply it almost throws him off. His hands white-knuckle on the handlebars. He heaves his weight forward and the front tire slams back down. His teeth crack together and his stomach lurches. He never lets up on the throttle.

One-ten, one-thirteen, one-fifteen, topping out. The bike screams out into the wide open spaces of the Grand Senora, a comet, a meteor. Every twitch of Ryan's shaking hands threatens to reduce him to a greasy smear on the pavement. If that's how he goes, so be it.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

The Akuma has nothing left to give. The throttle's wide open, the engine a deafening roar. He flattens himself against the bike while the wind rips at his jacket. He can't fucking steer like this, the next patch of traffic is racing towards him, it's not enough, it's not enough, it's not _enough. . . ._

He whistles between a semi and a pickup and the vortices shove him hard. He loses control of the bike. The handlebars wrench in his hands. The whole bike fishtails. He fights it. He careens across four lanes and into the dirt. He comes off the bike.

The ground knocks his breath out. He tumbles so many times he forgets which way is up. The helmet _cracks_ like a gunshot. He skids to a stop in a cloud of dust. The bike smashes into something with a tremendous _crunch._

Son of a bitch.

Ryan lies there in the dirt for a long time, waiting to be able to feel his body again. All he's getting right now is pain and adrenaline, so much that he's just floating in a sea of them. The visor of his helmet is covered with a meteor-storm of scratches. His ragged breathing is loud inside it. Headlights rake past like the beams of a dozen lighthouses. If anybody saw him wreck, they don't care. He's a ways from the road, it's dark, he's wearing black. Unless the bike's on fire, nobody's going to notice him now.

As his mind settles back in, he takes a slow inventory. At least a couple of his ribs are broken. He doesn't think anything else is, but he hasn't tried moving yet. He doesn't _think_ he's injured his spine, but it might be hard to tell. Breathing is still going well, and from the way his heart pounds in his ears, that's still working, too.

With one clumsy hand, he reaches up and flips up the visor of his helmet. Cool air rushes in over his eyes. Half the sky overhead is still greyed-out by the lights of Los Santos. He didn't manage to get that far, after all.

Typical.

Groaning, Ryan rolls onto his side and pulls the helmet off. His broken ribs shoot pain through his chest and he winces, but he's had worse. The helmet rattles on the desert pavement when he drops it. The back of it is split wide open. The night air combs cold fingers through his sweaty hair. He's shaking like crazy, floaty and weird from the adrenaline. His eyes won't focus. He wonders if he's concussed. He lifts his head and looks around for the Akuma.

It's about a hundred feet away, lying at the foot of a plume of dust, or maybe smoke. It doesn't look like it's on fire from here, but he fancies he can smell burning plastic. Ryan coughs, and gets another volley of protests from his broken ribs.

By the light of the passing cars, he heaves himself to his feet and staggers over to the bike.

Oh yeah. He's gonna be walking home. The white smoke of failure is dribbling out of the engine, and all the electronics are dead. The key's snapped off in the ignition. Both tires are shredded. That big _crunch_ noise was apparently just the bike hitting the ground after going over a bump in the berm. The paint job's ruined.

"That'll buff out," he says weakly, and then coughs, because his lungs are full of dust and smoke.

Ryan stands there for a good minute and a half, just staring, out of things to do. He's bleeding in a couple places, road rash striped up one calf where his jeans got yanked up in the crash. Everything is sore, all his muscles wrenched up tight.

He tells himself he's lucky to be alive. He doesn't feel very lucky.

Slowly, he turns around and sits on the bike. He fishes in his pocket for his phone—which is fucking shattered too, of course. He sighs and drops it into the dust, resting his elbows on his knees. He lets his head hang heavy. His eyes drift closed.

He can still see the look on Jeremy's face as he died.

Lacing his fingers together, he squeezes his temples with his thumbs. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow down, a disgust he can't compartmentalize. He's still shaking from the crash. Every breath sends arrows of pain shooting through his chest. His head is muzzy, his eyes stinging.

It's not enough. It's not enough.

"Fuck," he whispers. His breath tastes like blood, and shitty energy drinks, and Gavin. He chokes back vomit, and tears, and the scream that's been boiling in his chest for months.

The worst part about it all is that Gavin's _right._ Nobody sees the Vagabond's face and lives. That's Rule Number One. Jeremy was dead the moment Ryan took off the mask. No matter what else is true, that fact is absolute. It's Ryan's fault for trying to go off-script, Ryan's fault for not following orders.

Why can't he just follow orders. Why can't he be the perfect assassin that Gavin wants, that the crew needs. Who does he think he is, anyway? A _person?_ No. He's the Vagabond first and foremost, a scourge and a terror, the myth, the legend. He doesn't get to be Ryan anymore, and this is why.

Because Ryan is a strong, independent, well-adjusted man who _can't do anything right._

It's why he even built the Vagabond in the first place. Working IT in some shithole call center gave him enough repressed rage to burn down a hundred cities the size of Los Santos, and there was _nothing_ he could do about it. His first gun sat in his safe for nine months because he could never bring himself to use it. He just didn't want to go to jail, didn't want to get gunned down by the cops, didn't want to lose his job and his shitty apartment and his stupid little weekend hobbies. Shooting up his office, however tempting, would've made things inconvenient.

The mask was a much more impulsive buy than the gun, but it turned out to be a much more dangerous one.

Ryan had a lot of skills, even before he started practicing in earnest. Guns got on well with him, and so did bikes and cars. He's got the IT thing covered head to toe and back to front. He robbed his first bank about two years ago, on the weekend, with the mask and the gun, and went back to work on Monday because he didn't have anything better to do.

A thousand dollars wasn't much of a haul, in the grand scheme of things, but the _rush_ was incomparable.

He's not sure when it got so out of control, when the Vagabond stopped being a costume and started being an entity, when Ryan became an accessory to his own life. He's not working that IT job anymore, that's for sure, and he's moved out of his shitty apartment.

He kills people now. That's a thing. It's a thing he's never really quite come to terms with, because he always does it with the mask on, and hell, people are all fucking awful anyways, so who gives a shit, right? Everybody deserves to get their head blown off. So long as he doesn't get caught, who cares? His conscience withered up and fell out years ago, long before the first bank. He guesses he's probably a serial killer, technically. Or something like that. A shitload of people are dead, either way.

But there's Jeremy. Or there _was._ He didn't seem so bad. He was just young and scared and doing his job.

And Ryan—as the Vagabond—was just following orders. So it's not his fault.

Isn't it?

Before Ryan can spiral any deeper into his own head, his earpiece chirps. He just about has a heart attack. Of course, of all the things to have survived the crash, of _course_ that did.

_"Ryan,"_ comes the voice in his ear, and holy shit, it's _not Gavin._

"Lindsay?" he croaks. His voice is rusty, hoarse. He has no idea how long he's been sitting here.

_"Hey,"_ she says. _"Uh, you don't have to, like, respond if you don't want to. Just, well, Gavin mentioned you were, uh, out of town? For the night? So I wanted to just let you know that I can feed Edgar, if you're gonna be gone for a while, or. . . ."_

Ryan rubs his eyes. He's so tired. Everything hurts. If only, he thinks, the Vagabond was a real person, and not just Ryan in a mask. If only he could _be_ that cold and hard and empty, all the way through, all the time.

"Thanks," he says. "That'd be great. It's . . . gonna be a long night."

_"Sure, sure,"_ says Lindsay. _"And hey, y'know, if you need anything else, uh, just let me know, okay? I would've called your phone, but it's off, so . . . so yeah. Gavin's letting me use the thing, because—we were kiiiiiinda worried you might've, like, wrapped yourself around a telephone pole or something? But it sounds like you're fine, so, I'll just—yeah."_

"Yeah," says Ryan. There's a moment of silence, and then he blurts, "I wrecked my bike."

_"You huh?"_

"My—my bike. It's sorta . . . um . . . totaled. I might be a little stuck. Don't—tell Gavin. About the bike."

_"Jesus, Ryan! Are you okay?"_

No. He's so not fucking okay, he's the least _okay_ he's ever fucking been, he _wishes_ he'd left the helmet at home so he could've just spattered his idiot brains out all over the fucking desert.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says. "Just uh . . . I miiiiiight need a ride home?"

She sighs. He can almost hear the comical marbly noise of her eyes rolling.

_"Fine, I can come and get you. Where are you?"_

"Uh. Somewhere off the Fifteen. To the—to the Los Santos side of Barstow."

_"Nearest mile marker?"_

"I'd have to kinda hike back to the highway, and I'm . . . not really. . . ."

_"Still in the Vagabond getup, huh."_

"Yeeaaaahhh, kinda."

_"Okay, so give it to me in hours-driven."_

"I don't know that that'll be much help."

_"Why?"_ Her voice is annoyed, anticipating a stupid answer, which he gives.

"I was maybe going a little bit over the speed limit."

_"A little bit, or a lotta bit?"_

"A lotta bit."

_"How much?"_

"Iiiii was goin' about . . . uh, Real Fast miles per hour."

_"Goddammit, Ryan. I didn't wanna have to do this, but I guess I don't have a choice."_ Her voice becomes muffled as she turns away from the mic. _"Hey, Gavin, I'm gonna need his coords."_

Ryan's blood turns to ice. Gavin's been listening the whole time. Gavin knows what he was out here doing, and Gavin will _know_ why. Ryan rubs the painful lump on the inside of his left forearm, the hard knot just under the skin.

Gavin also, somehow, convinced him to get microchipped. There's no getting away from Gavin.

_"All right,"_ says Lindsay. _"Hang tight, I should be there in about uh, an hour and a half. Okay?"_

"Sure," Ryan says dully. "I'll be here."

It's not like he has any choice.


	5. Tender Loathsome Care

"Oh, _fuck,_ Gavin—"

"Mmhm?" says Gavin. He can't say much else, since his mouth is a little full at the moment. Although he's got a pleasant buzz going from a few shots of tequila, his knees are starting to ache from being on the floor so long, and he's getting envious of Ryan's position on the couch. Ryan's bare skin is sweaty under his hands, his breath coming short.

"Would it kill you be a little _careful?"_ Ryan demands, and flinches at the next firm swipe of Gavin's hand. His fingers dig into Gavin's shoulder, straining the scabs on his knuckles.

Gavin stops what he's doing to take the tube of Neosporin out from between his teeth. The massive stripe of road rash on Ryan's calf is proving harder to clean than anticipated. There's a lot of grit embedded in the pus and blood.

"Aw, does it sting?" he asks, pouting up at Ryan.

"Poor widdle Ryebread," Jack teases, stitching up his shoulder, where a particularly sharp rock cut through his jacket. "You need somebody to kiss it and make it better?"

"Fuck you," Ryan says.

"Y'know, instead of whinin' about it, you coulda just taken the fuckin' percs," Michael says. He's set up on the other side of the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, seemingly hypnotized by the TV. It's well past midnight, and the only thing on is shitty reality shows. They've been letting it play just for the noise, in case things get loud. That's also why Gavin broke out the Percoset, but so far that hasn't been used.

"Maybe I _like_ whining," Ryan mumbles. "Not _my_ fault if Gavin's being too rough."

Gavin rubs his cheek on Ryan's knee. Ryan flushes from chest to his hairline and delivers a warning kick to Gavin's ribs. Michael gags.

"Jesus, get a room," he says.

"We're in it," Lindsay calls from the kitchen. Geoff kicked them all out of his flat hours ago, and they'd relocated here for bevs and then, when it became necessary, first aid.

"Would you just hurry up and finish," Ryan grumbles at Gavin.

"Never heard _that_ one before," Gavin says, tossing him a cheeky wink. Michael gags again.

_"Stop,_ stop, I can't take any more of this!"

"Aw, are you jealous, Michael-boi?"

"No, fuck you."

"If you like, yeah."

"Boys," Jack warns. She finishes off the stitches in Ryan's shoulder. "Hey, Gavin, pass me the gauze and tape?"

"Yep, there we are," Gavin says, passing them to her. He finally gets back to wiping the grit and dirt out of Ryan's road rash, and Ryan immediately winces again.

_"Gavin,"_ he growls, and it's a _good_ sound.

Admittedly, the roughness may be slightly intentional.

"Not _my_ fault if you're a little bitch," Gavin says, cocking an eyebrow. "We'll be here all night if you keep on whinging like this."

"It'll be _your_ fault for taking so fucking long," says Ryan.

_"You're_ the one who went out and crashed your fuckin' bike like a dumbass," Michael points out. "We could _all_ be in bed if you weren't such a fuckin' adrenaline junkie."

"Fuck you, I do what I want," says Ryan.

"Okay, all done," Jack says, smoothing down the last of the tape on Ryan's shoulder. "Gavin, good luck; Ryan, you're going to need it."

_"Me?_ Why _me?"_

"Cheers, Jack," says Gavin. Ryan's about to say something else when Gavin gives his calf an especially rough wipe with the washcloth. Ryan twitches and hisses through his teeth and clenches his hand on Gavin's shoulder.

"You ready to head out?" Lindsay asks.

"Yeah, good to go," says Jack. "You still good to drive?"

"Regrettably, yes," she says.

"Hey, really though, thanks for chauffeuring," Jack says. "Michael? You ready to head out?"

"I'll jump out the fuckin' window before I'll be stuck in here alone with _these_ two cockbites," Michael says, heaving himself to his feet. He's the drunkest of all of them, which is why he wasn't allowed to help with the first aid.

"All right," says Lindsay. She heads for the door, then detours to help Michael stumble his way there. "You two stay safe, and if you need anything, you know how to get in touch with me."

"Yep, cheers, luv," Gavin says, saluting to her.

"Yeah," Ryan says. Gavin can tell he doesn't want them to go. "Sure."

"Say _thanks for saving my ass,_ Ryan," Jack teases.

"Fuck you," says Ryan, going pink again.

"Eh, whatever," Lindsay says. She waves over her shoulder as Michael fumbles the door open. "Don't die without me."

"Oh, well there go all _my_ plans for the night," Ryan says, dredging up a sliver of joviality from somewhere.

Lindsay makes a face at him, and Jack rolls her eyes, and Michael yells something mush-mouthed and insulting, and then they're gone.

As a little reward for playing well-adjusted for the others, Gavin gets a good deal more gentle with his ministrations. Ryan lets his head loll on the back of the couch.

"All right, love?" Gavin asks, as he starts smearing Neosporin over the mostly-clean road rash.

"Everything hurts," Ryan admits.

"We've got stuff for that, if you like."

"Look, if there's ibuprofin, fine, but I don't _do_ opiates."

"Nah, come off it, just the once won't hurt you. You'll sleep better, as well."

"I'm already fucking exhausted, I don't think I need any help."

_"How_ many ribs have you broken?" Gavin asks, looking up at him. Ryan is just staring up at the ceiling, his throat bared, the hand that isn't on Gavin's shoulder lying limp on the couch.

"Four-ish," he answers.

"And you're expecting to _sleep?"_

"I'm fine."

"Ryan," Gavin says, leaning his cheek on Ryan's knee and pouting. "You've got to take better care of yourself, love. First the reckless driving, and now you won't even have proper medical care? They'd be givin' you the same stuff in hospital, I don't know why you're getting mingy about it."

Ryan heaves a sigh and then winces, probably from the ribs.

"If I take one, will you quit pestering me?"

"I won't have to, then, will I."

He rubs his face and pulls his head back up like it weighs half a ton. There are dark circles under his eyes, bruises rising on his forehead and cheeks, a cut through one eyebrow. He isn't concussed, as best as Lindsay could tell, but he's definitely not in good shape.

"Fine," he says. "Gimme."

Gavin nabs the bottle off the table and hands it to Ryan. He shakes out a white pill into his hand and slams it back like a shot.

"D'you want anything to wash it—all _right,"_ says Gavin, as Ryan dry-swallows.

Ryan makes a face, then rubs his throat, then coughs.

"Actually," he says, sheepish. Gavin hops up and returns shortly with a glass of orange juice, which Ryan chugs.

Gavin takes his time bandaging the calf wound, and then spends some more time checking for broken toes, abrasions, and contusions. There's another patch of road rash on Ryan's knee, cut through with denim and freckles of concrete.

"Take your trousers off, love," Gavin says, investigating it. They've still got a while before the Percoset kicks in, five minutes at least. He'll find some way to waste the time.

"Gavin," Ryan complains.

"Nah, I'm serious. C'mon, you've already got the shirt off."

Ryan grumbles and makes faces, but he does as he's told. It's apparently rather painful, judging by the faces he makes as he struggles out of the sweaty jeans. He subsides back onto the couch, holding himself delicately.

"Happy?" he asks.

Gavin kisses his bare thigh. Ryan shivers.

"Absolutely chuffed, love," Gavin says.

"Quit," Ryan mumbles. With him in just his boxers, there's very little left to the imagination. Gavin keeps an eye on the relevant parts, but for the time being, he gets back to wound care.

He's just gotten done with the scraped knee when the Percoset kicks in. Over the course of about a minute, Ryan finally relaxes, settling back against the couch. Gavin knows it's properly doing its job when a careless brush of his fingertips against the inside of Ryan's thigh sends a shudder through all of him.

"All right, love?" he asks again, softly.

"I'm—good," Ryan says, eyes closed. Gavin presses another kiss to his skin, and there's another shiver. The hand that's been resting on Gavin's shoulder creeps up into his hair. "I'm doin' real good."

Gavin slips his fingers around the backs of Ryan's knees and pulls them in against his shoulders, gratified when Ryan bites his lip and tips his head back, when the hand in his hair tightens its grip.

"Whilst I'm down here," Gavin mentions.

"God, yes," says Ryan.

Gavin makes an approving face and starts kissing his way up Ryan's thigh, listening to his breath. The hitch and whimper when Gavin nuzzles between his legs send a shock through his chest. It's all worth it, just for that. He wets his lips and tugs the waistband down and sets about his work.

"Oh, _fuck,"_ Ryan gasps, with an involuntary buck of his hips. "Gavin—"

"Mmhm?" says Gavin.

He can't really say much else. His mouth is full.


	6. Tiger, Tiger

"I'm worried about Ryan," says Lindsay.

"Yeah, of course," Geoff sighs. It's been a long day. There's a lot to do. There's always a lot to do, but it seems like there's been more and more of it lately. That's part of why he took Lindsay on, was to help with all of the _lots._ Somehow it hasn't worked.

"I'm serious," she says.

"No no, no, I bet you are," says Geoff, waving a hand. "But uh, look, I mean, he's pretty much harmless outside of jobs, keeps it all in check, Gavin's got him on a pretty short leash—"

"That's what I'm worried about," Lindsay interrupts.

Geoff looks up, frowning.

"Huh?" he says.

"You haven't noticed?" Lindsay says.

"What, that they're, like, bangin' all the time?" says Geoff. "Uhhh 'cuz yeah, I for sure noticed that. A lot."

"No, _Geoff,_ I mean about the short leash," Lindsay says, balling her fist. "You don't think it's kinda weird that Gavin just scooped up some random lunatic off the street to be his—his pet assassin? That doesn't worry you at all?"

"Ryan's part of the crew," Geoff says. "He's everybody's buddy, and everybody's his buddy, and we're all fine. It's fine! If he ever really loses it, he'll kill Gavin first and uhhhh the rest of us'll have time to put him down. Backup plan, all good, nooooo need for discussion."

Lindsay stares at him. Geoff strokes his mustache, uncomfortable with her expression.

"What?" he says.

"That's pretty fucking cold, Geoff," she spits.

"Hey, you don't get to be a crime boss by being _nice,"_ says Geoff. "Look, what do you want me to do about it? Ryan's useful, and Gavin's useful for keeping Ryan in line. I don't see that anything needs to get different about that!"

"How about the fact that Ryan's a _human being_ and Gavin is _hurting_ him?" Lindsay demands.

Geoff eyes her up for a second. He closes his laptop and sets it aside.

"You wanna run that by me again?" he says.

"Look," says Lindsay. "Ryan's not just _some lunatic,_ Geoff, he's a person. And Gavin is hurting him. It's really, really obvious."

"Naaaahhh, c'mon," says Geoff. "Gavin's a little—little fuckin' nerd, he's an idiot. Couldn't hurt anybody if he tried. And _if_ he tried, Ryan could just uhhhh _crrk!"_ He made a twisting motion with both hands. "Wring his scrawny little neck."

"I don't mean physically, Geoff."

"Oh, what, is this about _feelings?"_ he asks, mocking.

"Yes," says Lindsay, without a hint of embarrassment. "It's about Ryan going out and almost killing himself on that stupid motorcycle. It's about him getting _upset_ whenever we leave him alone _with his boyfriend._ It's about Gavin having him microchipped so he can—can _stalk_ him! It's not _normal,_ Geoff, it isn't right."

"Well, uh, y'know, I mean." Geoff fidgets. "Ryan's like, crazy though. He's killed like, uhhhh way over a hundred people. Of course he's kinda— _woo-oo,_ weird about stuff. A-and it makes sense, that Gavin would uh, would have him microchipped, 'cuz if he runs off to do crazy stuff—"

"Who told you any of this?" Lindsay interrupts.

Geoff squints at her over the conference table. "What do you mean?"

"Who told you Ryan was crazy? Who explained to you why he had to be microchipped? Fuck, who's been keeping track of his kills?"

"Uh," says Geoff.

"It's _Gavin,_ Geoff. It all comes through Gavin."

"But, no, c'mon, he's a little idiot, he can't—"

"Is he, though?" she demands. "Or is that what he _wants_ you to think?"

"Iiiii'm pretty sure he's just an idiot," says Geoff.

"Who cleans up his messes?" Lindsay says.

"Who what now?"

"Who cleans up his messes?" she repeats. "When he breaks something, who cleans it up?"

"Well, uh, usually Michael, I guess, but—"

"Who washes your sheets?"

"I do?"

"After he and Ryan have been _fucking_ on them, who washes your sheets? Is it him?"

"Nnnnnno," Geoff says slowly. "No, it . . . it's usually me. But if I wait for _Gavin_ to do it, it'll never get done, 'cuz he's a useless little prick who can't _do_ anything."

"He does his own laundry at home," Lindsay points out.

"Well yeah, but—"

"When Gavin hurts somebody," Lindsay says quietly. "Who apologizes?"

Geoff has to think about this one for a while.

"I mean," he says. "Probably Gavin."

"Have you ever heard him apologize?" Lindsay says. "To anyone? _Ever?"_

Geoff thinks about that one for a while longer.

"I dunno," he admits. "But like . . . it doesn't _matter,_ does it? I mean, Ryan's like, a super awful dude, man. Even if Gavin's kinda shitty to him, it's, like, justified! Right? We're all kinda shitty people, it's not like we—we—we _deserve_ nice stuff, hah. It's like totally the opposite! Bad shit _should_ happen to us!"

Lindsay just sits and stares at him, her eyebrows slowly raising. Geoff hears the words that came out of his mouth as though somebody else spoke them.

"Uh . . . huh," he says, scratching the stubble rising on his chin. "I mean . . . y'know. Or whatever."

"Geoff," Lindsay says.

"I'mmmmmm gonna fire Gavin," Geoff decides. He nods to himself. "Yeah. _Yeah._ We don't need his kind of attitude around here. He uh . . . he's been useful, but, uh, he's a dick! He's a real dick."

"Can I make a suggestion, before you do?" Lindsay says.

"Yeah, I guess," Geoff sighs.

"Make sure Ryan's out of town when you do. Better yet, make sure Ryan's earpiece and microchip have a _nasty accident."_

Words swim up out of Geoff's memory, clearer than he'd like. He laughed the first time. It's not nearly as funny now.

_I'll set Ryan on you, and then you'll all be sucking knobs in Hell._

"Ryan . . . wouldn't though, right?" Geoff says. "I mean, his own crew? Hahah. Hah."

Lindsay doesn't say anything. Geoff picks his phone up off the table.

"Yep, okay," he says."One _nasty accident_ coming right up."


	7. Nasty Accident

Ryan knows there's someone else in the apartment the moment he walks in the door.

He's not sure what it is—some wrong air current, a whiff of a scent, some single object minutely moved by an intruder's passage. He doesn't have his gun on him, but he has a lot of knives (he always has a lot of knives). He rests his hand one of them casually—it's better if whoever it is doesn't know he knows they're here.

He has a moment of panic— _Edgar,_ what if they'd done something to his cat, _fuck fuck fuck—_ before he remembers that Edgar is staying with Lindsay because. . . .

Well, because Gavin said something to somebody at some point, probably involving the words _sociopath_ and _cruelty to animals,_ and now Ryan doesn't have a cat anymore.

Focus. First things first.

Ryan pads through the apartment, which is spacious and used to be nice. It's gone a long way towards hell ever since Ryan started living in it. He hasn't cleaned it once. He slips through the kitchen, with its grimy floor and sink full of dishes, and then the living room that reeks of cat piss, and then the hallway and his bedroom. The floor is covered in crap, discarded clothes and books and boxes. The closet door is ever so slightly ajar. Ryan eases his way inside, pretending he hasn't noticed.

Just as he expected, the closet door flies open, and someone leaps out.

Someone short, and stocky, and _familiar._

"Surprise, bitch!" he cries, leveling a gun at Ryan's head. "Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me!"

Ryan stares at him. The hair is brown now, a weird cut on the side of his head, but—but—

"You're. . . ." Ryan wheezes. No air is coming in or out. His head is spinning, vision narrowing down to a tunnel.

The man says something, but Ryan can't make it out past the roaring in his ears. Darkness is closing over his vision.

For the first time in his entire life, Ryan passes out.

* * *

 

He comes to with Jeremy leaning over him, one hand on the back of his head.

"Jesus fucking Christ, what the shit," he's muttering to himself. His face is pinched with confusion—maybe concern?

"Mmnh," says Ryan. His tongue isn't working. He's lying on the floor, and Jeremy's holding him. From the lack of a giant goose-egg on the back of his head, he assumes Jeremy caught him when he passed out.

Jeremy's head snaps up. His face goes hard. He drops Ryan and fumbles around and then the gun is pressed to Ryan's chest.

"Don't move," Jeremy orders.

Ryan just stares up at him, taking in every detail of his face. That cut is nasty, streaked from his left eyebrow back over his ear. The hair around it is peach-fuzz, and now that he's closer Ryan can see where stitches were criss-crossed down its length. Slowly, it coheres that—that's where Ryan shot him. That's where the bullet tore his scalp open and made him look dead.

But Jeremy isn't dead. Jeremy's _here._

"Hi," Ryan says, breathless.

Jeremy's eyebrows pull together, the corners of his mouth turn down.

"Hi, don't talk to me, I'm killing you," he says.

"Okay," says Ryan. "Uh—but. . . ."

"What?"

Gently, ever so gently, he wraps his hand around Jeremy's, guides the gun down about three inches. Jeremy's hand is warm, warm and strong and _alive._

"Heart's right there," Ryan says. "'F you wanna."

Jeremy glances down at his hand, at the gun, at Ryan's heart. He licks his lips. His eyes linger, just for a moment, on Ryan's throat, his mouth.

"I wanna know why," he says.

"Gavin told me to," Ryan answers.

_"Gavin?_ Who's _Gavin?"_

Ryan taps his earpiece. Jeremy's frown deepens.

"He tell you to fuck with me, too? Before you fucking shot me in the head?"

With a shrug, Ryan says, "Yeah. I mean. He didn't tell me to let you go, that was . . . me. But the—everything before that was, uh. His idea."

Jeremy's jaw clenches. His other hand flicks to Ryan's ear, and two thick fingers jam in, and then he _rips_ the earpiece out. Ryan's eardrum pops like a balloon and he yelps, clapping a hand over the ear. Jeremy goes rigid. He looks down at the earpiece in his hand, whey-faced. Fluid is pooling in Ryan's ear, and he can't hear anything but a faint ringing from it, and that whole side of his head aches.

"Uh," says Jeremy. "Oh. Um."

One eye scrunched up, Ryan looks over at the earpiece. Bits of skin are dangling off of it, and it's caked in brown wax. He looks away again very quickly, nauseated.

"How . . . long . . . has that been in there?" Jeremy asks faintly.

"Don't know," Ryan mumbles. His voice sounds weird. The fluid is starting to trickle out of his ear. "A . . . a while. Longer than the microchip."

_"Microchip?"_ Jeremy exclaims.

"Well, yeah," says Ryan. He flaps his left arm like a dead fish. "For . . . keeping track of me. Y'know. So I can't. . . ."

He trails off. He doesn't want to finish that sentence.

Jeremy's jaw clenches. He drops the earpiece on the floor and then, before Ryan can do _anything,_ smashes it with the butt of his gun.

_"No!"_ Ryan cries, reaching out for the little crackly mess on the floor. "No no, no, you can't do that, you can't—you can't—"

His lungs won't inflate. Everything from his esophagus to his asshole is tangling itself up in slimy knots. He's going to pass out again. Gavin's going to _know,_ Gavin's going to ask _questions,_ Gavin's going to be so fucking _angry. . . ._

"And I'm getting that microchip out, too," Jeremy declares. "Where is it, lemme see."

"No—Jeremy, no, you don't understand, you can't—"

"I'm not doing this as a _Mr. Nice Guy_ thing, _Ryan,"_ he spits. "I'm not having your fuckin' _handler_ siccing you on me again, and I'm not getting _caught_ 'cuz you had a fucking _microchip._ So it's comin' out, like it or not."

Ryan shuts his mouth. There's a definitive tone of command in Jeremy's voice that's familiar. That's a voice you don't say _no_ to.

God, but he's well-trained.

Jeremy takes Ryan's wrist and kneels on it. He keeps the gun handy, which makes things difficult when he starts rolling up Ryan's sleeve. Nonchalant, Ryan takes the gun from him while he's distracted.

_"Hey—"_ Jeremy cries, tensing up. Ryan just sets the gun aside.

"It's a two-handed job," he says. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Jeremy scowls at him for a moment, then reaches down and takes one of the knives out of Ryan's belt. It's close, and it's professional, and it's. . . .

Okay, it's kinda hot.

The knife bites into Ryan's forearm, and he hisses a breath through his teeth. Jeremy's really not fucking around with this microchip removal. He cuts a short line, mashes on the hard little node with his thumb until the microchip splorches out with kind of a lot of blood. Jeremy's kneeling so hard on Ryan's wrist that his whole hand has gone numb, and the cut stings and aches and oozes, and Ryan must be on some next-level shit right now, because the only thing running through his head is how much he wants Jeremy to raw him, preferably right there on the floor, preferably while making about two dozen more little incisions.

Jeremy wrinkles his nose at the microchip, then flicks it off into the corner of the room.

"Okay," he says. His voice is shaking, just a little bit. There's blood on his hands. "Okay, so here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna come get into my car, and we're gonna go . . . someplace else. Where you haven't been tracked to. And then . . . I'm gonna shoot you in the head. For real."

"Sure," Ryan manages. _Jesus,_ he's fucked. It shouldn't be _thrilling_ to be cut open and kidnapped and executed. The prospect of being dragged off somewhere where Gavin can't find him shouldn't be _appealing._

Where Gavin _can't_ find him.

Oh.

Jeremy picks up the gun and hauls Ryan to his feet. Ryan belatedly puts a hand over the cut on his arm, staunching the flow of blood. There's quite a bit of it on the floor, plus the smashed earpiece. He still can't hear out of his right ear. He suspects the eardrum actually burst when Jeremy yanked the earpiece out, because of vacuum or something. There's fluid trickling down the side of his face, now. It might be blood.

"Come on," Jeremy says, tugging on his arm. "Let's go."


	8. Hostage Situation (NSFW)

It takes about thirty seconds for Jeremy to wind up in bed with the Vagabond.

The drive to his apartment was so tense that Jeremy nearly screamed the whole way. Then it was up the stairs, the gun pressed to the small of the Vagabond's back, and then closed doors and _oh goodness_ they were so close to the bed already in this tiny shitty little studio apartment, and all it took was one little shove to push the Vagabond—the actual, honest-to-God _Vagabond—_ into Jeremy's bed.

And the way he looked at him, that breathless expectation, combined with the way he'd squirmed in the car, it was all too much, and Jeremy chucked the gun aside and fisted both hands in the Vagabond's hair and climbed up into his lap.

The kiss is extraordinary—hungry and desperate, open mouths and searching tongues, and before Jeremy knows what he's doing he pushes his hostage over backwards and grinds down on him, hard.

_"Fuck,"_ the Vagabond gasps, digging hot fingers into Jeremy's hips, and Jeremy nearly cums right then and there. Jeremy kisses him again before he can say anything else, but then its just the Vagabond moaning into his mouth and that's _worse,_ oh God that's so much worse, he's aching and swollen and soaking through his pants and to be perfectly honest he _really doesn't care._

And then there's a hand on his chest, pushing him back, and he can't help the whimper that trickles out of his throat.

"I—I can't," the Vagabond says, breathless, aching. "I can't, I have—I have a boyfriend, I don't. . . ."

"You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me," Jeremy says. He's really going to scream at this rate, or start crying. His hips twitch against the Vagabond's of their own accord, and the Vagabond's eyes flutter closed and a hiss of breath comes out of him and it's just so fucking _good._ But it's a clear _no_ from the mouth, no matter what everything else is saying, so. . . .

Jeremy starts to climb off of him. The Vagabond catches him and yanks him back in, with such force that Jeremy yelps. One hand slides up onto the back of Jeremy's head, strong and genuinely massive, while the other stays on his hip, idly caressing with the thumb.

"But," says the Vagabond.

"Man, you gotta gimme a yes or no," Jeremy says through his teeth. "'Cuz I think you're gonna kill me for real if this keeps going."

The Vagabond is . . . shaking. He's shivering, biting his lip, hard as a rock between Jeremy's legs. It's weird, and it's incongruous, and Jeremy wracks his brains to come up with some way to make _something_ happen, he doesn't care what, but whatever this is right now, it's uncomfortable and he doesn't like it.

"Ryan," he says, and the Vagabond's breath catches, both hands tighten, there's an involuntary buck of the hips. "Gimme a yes or a no."

"Yes," says Ryan, and he's _wrecked._ "Yes, please, I—"

But Jeremy's already kissing him again, and the rest of whatever Ryan was going to say gets caught up in his mouth. Jeremy fumbles with the button of his own jeans, struggles out of them and his underwear and keeps on kissing Ryan because if he doesn't he'll die. Then it's both hands in Ryan's hair, holding his head down against the mattress as Jeremy waddles on his knees up to his face. Ryan slips a hand around to the front of his hips and— _moment of truth, please please please—_

And hesitates, for a moment. Clearly this isn't what he expected. His eyes are closed. Carefully, he runs his thumb up Jeremy's length and back down, past the base to where Jeremy's soaking wet.

"Uh," says Ryan. "I don't . . . have, uh, experience with—so how do you want me to, uh—"

"I want your tongue _in_ me _right now,"_ Jeremy says.

"Okay," says Ryan. His hands close on Jeremy's hips and pull him forward and down, lifts his head and licks a slow stripe over Jeremy's hole, feeling out the edges of it. The sound that comes out of Jeremy could shatter wine glasses, and he grinds down against Ryan's face before he can stop himself. Ryan's nose pushes on his clit and his thighs try to clench around his head.

"Please," he gasps. "Please, please, please—"

Ryan tucks his chin and takes a deep breath, and then presses his tongue up inside Jeremy like he's licking cookie batter off the spoon, drags it back so slowly that Jeremy can't help but whimper and buck his hips. Ryan's hands tighten on him and he's _unbelievably_ strong, locking Jeremy in place as he starts to fuck him with his tongue, _so_ slow and _so_ wet and hot, feeling out every inch of the inside of him, and Jeremy's reduced to a blubbering mess in seconds.

"Faster," he begs. "Faster, more, please, I wanna—I wanna—"

Ryan's hands are pressing bruises into his skin, but it doesn't matter because he's _finally_ speeding up, brushing the underside of Jeremy's clit with his nose, tongue curling against the inside of him, and when he comes up for air it's only to suckle Jeremy's clit. His chin is soaked with slick, his lips and tongue hot and swollen. Jeremy's back arches and his head falls back, incoherent pleas tumbling through his lips. One of Ryan's hands slides around and pushes two fingers into him while he laves Jeremy's clit with his tongue, fucking him fast and shallow.

With a helpless moan and full-body convulsion, Jeremy cums so hard his ears ring. Ryan slows down but doesn't stop, still suckling on his clit and burying his fingers in Jeremy up to the third knuckle, until Jeremy whispers _stop, stop,_ and Ryan's head falls back on the bed. His pupils are blown wide with lust, his breath coming short, and _God,_ yeah, his whole face is just drenched, and he's still got two fingers in Jeremy and they're shaking.

"Okay?" Ryan asks.

"Fuck you," says Jeremy. "Fuck your _okay,_ fuck your _I've never done this before,_ and fuck fuck _fuck_ your shitty boyfriend."

"Don't wanna," says Ryan. He's not super coherent. His fingers curl inside Jeremy and make him shudder. "Wanna fuck you."

"God," Jeremy breathes.

"Do you wanna. . . ?" Ryan says, and there's a hint of desperation in his voice.

Jeremy takes a deep breath. He rolls his hips against Ryan's hand and watches him writhe.

"I got condoms in the bathroom," Jeremy says. "And a spare vibe. And what we're gonna do is, the vibe's gonna go in the baby-making hole, and you're gonna go in the other one, and then you're gonna fuck me until I forget my name."

Ryan gulps. He raises his head and drags his tongue all the way from his soaking wet knuckles to the tip of Jeremy's clit. Jeremy moans, grabbing a handful of his hair.

"Okay," says Ryan. "Uh."

"What?"

"After that."

"Uh-huh?"

"Do you . . . happen to own a strap-on? 'Cuz. . . ."

Jeremy goes hot all over and shivers. Ryan looks really, really good underneath him, he realizes. Like, _really_ good. Like, _I want that man writhing on the end of my cock_ good.

"Yeah," he says, rutting against Ryan's hand. "Y'know what, change of fuckin' plans. We're doing your idea first."

_"First?"_ says Ryan, sounding somewhere between overwhelmed and enthusiastic.

"Buddy, if you want it, I'm up to fuck 'til one of us passes out."

Ryan stares at him, open mouthed, and blinks a couple times. Jeremy grinds against his hand again, just to watch him squirm.

"I'm . . . really, really, _really_ up for that," says Ryan.

"Good," says Jeremy. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put my dick on so I can fuck you senseless."

A dopey smile pulls at Ryan's mouth. He kisses Jeremy's clit and curls his fingers again.

"Okay," he says.


	9. Unemployment

Gavin stares at Geoff for a moment, waiting for him to start laughing.

Geoff does not start laughing. Geoff doesn't even look like he's joking.

"Hah-hah," Gavin prompts. "Yeah, right."

"No, Gavin, I'm serious," says Geoff. "You're fired. Pack up your shit and get out."

"Nah, come off it," says Gavin. "This line of work? You don't fire people. In it for life, us."

"Well, then I guess you better find some other crew to leech off," says Geoff. He's utterly stony. It occurs to Gavin, for the very first time, that he might actually be serious.

"Geoff," he wheedles, "c'mon, Geoff, what am I meant to do, anyway? You can't kick me out onto the streets like this, I'll be bloody mincemeat!"

"Okay, so mince off," Geoff snaps. "You're _fired._ Pack it _up._ Get the fuck _out."_

"But Geoff, _why?_ What've I ever done to you?"

_"Ah-_ ta-ta-ta-ta," Geoff cuts him off, holding up a finger. "No. This isn't up for debate, man. You're not talking me out of it, you don't get to make a case, you don't even get an explanation! _Get. Out."_

"This isn't funny, Geoff," he whines. "Come off it, just tell me what I've done, I'll fix it! Is it 'cos of the TV and shit? Honestly, you can replace them out of my cut, I don't mind—"

"No, _Gavin,_ it's not about the fucking TV! It's about you being a piece of shit!"

"Yeah, but I've always been a piece of shit, 's not _new."_

"You're right, it's not," says Geoff. "In fact, it's gotten real old, Gavin. We don't need your kind of, uh—your kind of-of-of _bullshit,_ right, on this team!"

"Nah, my sort of bullshit's just what you need," says Gavin, smiling at him. "C'mon, have a look about! You wouldn't be half as far as you are without me, would you. I've been nothin' but good for this little . . . _venture,_ yeah? Look, just tell me what it is I've done that's minged you off, I'll fix it up, and we'll get back to things as they should be."

"No, nope, no, we're not—"

"All right all right all right," Gavin sighs, rolling his eyes. "And to make it up to you, I'll suck you off if you like. _And_ do the sheets afterwards."

That, finally, stops Geoff in his tracks. He stares at Gavin in unadulterated shock. He takes a slow breath. Gavin settles back on his heels, already loosening up his throat.

"You . . . fucking _freak,"_ Geoff spits. "You total fucking cocksucking piece of _shit._ Get the fuck out of my apartment."

"Wh—what?" says Gavin, floored.

"Get the fuck out!" He shoves Gavin in the chest. "Don't fucking come near me or anybody in my crew ever fucking again! You're fucking disgusting!"

"Bloody hell, Geoff, what is this? You can't—"

_"I do whatever the fuck I want!"_ Geoff screams. His hand flicks out and comes back with a gun.

Slowly, Gavin raises his hands. Slowly, he backs away.

"All right, yeah, yeah, 'course you do, you're the boss," he says, pacifying. "I'll come back later, shall I? When you've had some time to calm down."

"If I _ever_ see your fucking face again, I'm putting a bullet in it," Geoff snarls.

"Wow, all right then," says Gavin. "D'you know what, keep my stuff. I don't need it."

Though it scares him half to death, he turns on his heel and marches right out of the apartment. The door swings shut behind him. Geoff does not shoot him. He lets out a breath.

"Bloody hell," he mutters under his breath.

He goes to the stairwell. The reception is better there. He presses the little button in his cufflink.

"Ryan, love," he says softly into the microphone. "I've got a cheeky little project for you."

For a moment, there's no response.

And then another moment.

And then a longer moment, stretching ever longer. Gavin's palms start to sweat. His head starts to ache.

"Ryan," he says, shaking the microphone like he's wringing Ryan's idiot neck. "Answer me."

Nothing.

Furious, shaking, he whips out his phone. It takes only moments to get the tracker pulled up—still active, still at Ryan's flat. There's no reason he wouldn't answer. Unless. . . .

Unless.

Gavin closes out that app and requests an Uber. It's not far to Ryan's flat. Probably his earpiece just ran out of batteries, or he did something stupid and reckless like taking it out, and Gavin will give him a proper hiding for it and then, oh and then, Ryan will be ever so guilty, ever so ashamed of himself, ever so willing to make it up to Gavin somehow, someway, _just say the word._

And Gavin knows _precisely_ how Ryan can make it up to him.

On a whim, while he's waiting downstairs for the Uber, he calls Ryan's cell. He's almost never done it before, for total lack of necessity.

He makes sure his caller ID shows as "Unlisted."

And this time, Ryan answers.

_"Hello?"_ His voice is sleepy, dazed. Maybe he's gone on some kind of bender with the Percosets Gavin left him. Not ideal, but workable.

"Hello, love," says Gavin. "D'you mind tellin' me why you've not been—"

Ryan hangs up on him.

Gavin stands perfectly still for a moment, blinking. His breath comes short. His hand clenches on the phone, slowly, slowly. His eyes prickle with tears.

"Oh," he says thickly. "So _that's_ how it bloody is, is it?"

The plastic creaks in protest. He clenches his teeth and forces the phone back into the pocket of his too-tight jeans. He takes slow, deep breaths. He doesn't see the Uber until it beeps at him. He gets into the back seat, nostrils flared and eyes unfocused.

"Hey," says the driver. "Where're we headed to?"

"Bit of a change of plans," says Gavin. "Just drop me by the AmmuNation, would you, luv?"

"Uh . . . all right," says the driver. "You still wanna go to—"

Gavin pulls the golden Deagle and nuzzles it right against the driver's head.

"Don't finish that sentence, luv," he says.

The driver gulps. When they speak again, their voice is a mere croak.

"Okay," they say.

"Drive," says Gavin, "and don't talk, and maybe I won't shoot you when we get there."

They drive.

As soon as the car stops, Gavin paints the windshield with their brains.


	10. Absolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the updated tags.

"Hey so Geoff, when did you get to be such a fuckin' chicken?" Michael asks.

"Fuck you," says Geoff.

Michael clicks his teeth and rolls his eyes. He's standing at the window, admiring the view. Jack is on the couch, propping her feet up on Lindsay's lap while absolutely destroying her in Melee.

"You still showed up," Lindsay points out. "Oh, god _dammit,_ Jack!"

"Get good," Jack says, as Lindsay loses for the zillionth time.

"He's my _boss,_ I _have_ to show up," Michael sneers. "Fuck, if it was up to me, I'd still be in fuckin' bed!"

"Quit sulking and come play a round," says Jack.

"I'm not _sulking."_

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Totally sulking," says Lindsay.

Michael mutters something under his breath that starts with _c'mere and I'll..._ and becomes mainly unprintable after that. He folds his arms and glares out the window some more. Geoff can tell he's keeping an eye on the other high-rises nearby, watching for snipers. Lindsay rolls her eyes and turns to Geoff.

"How 'bout you, Boss Man? You want in?"

"Not 'til we hear back from Ryan," Geoff says, resolute. "He should be where Gavin can't get to him, but—"

"Come _on,_ man, give it a rest," says Michael. "What, you think Gavin's gonna sic Ryan on us like some kinda fuckin' . . . Winter Soldier bullshit? It's _Gavin,_ dude, he's useless."

"Mmmmm, no, he's really not," says Lindsay. "I mean, not when he doesn't want to be."

"Fucking bullshit," Michael mutters. "Where the fuck _is_ Ryan, anyways?"

"I sent him a guardian angel," says Geoff.

"You pointed some wacko kid at him, and he might be dead," Lindsay points out.

"Yeah, okay, but if he's dead, he can't kill us," says Geoff. "So it's a good plan! Besides, that kid's not gonna kill him. I did my research, I know what I'm doing!"

"When hell freezes over," Jack says. "Lindsay, you wanna go one-on-one again?"

"Someday I'll find a way to use crack-hands in this game," says Lindsay, flexing her fingers. "Then you'll be done for."

Michael snorts. "Just gonna milk that for all it's fuckin' worth, huh?"

"Hey, my crack-hands are gonna take over the world," she says, settling in.

"You're a fuckin' idiot."

The door opens. Geoff has just enough time to think _didn't I lock that_ before—

Blood bursts across the window. Glass cracks. Michael's head slams against it. He crumples. Geoff's ears ring. Lindsay screams.

Everything's in slow-motion. Geoff can't move. Gavin takes two steps inside, and the door swings shut behind him. There's a pistol in his hand, a long black suppressor on the end of it. There's a lockpick in the other. He's dressed in white, golden glasses, perfect hair. He isn't smiling.

Lindsay tumbles off the sofa. She lunges for Michael. The gun in Gavin's hand jerks, there's a vicious _z_ _z_ _ip_ noise. Lindsay jerks like she's been punched in the chest. He fires again, _z_ _z_ _ip z_ _z_ _ip z_ _z_ _ip._ She staggers back, unbalanced. She falls.

Jack is on her feet, drawing her gun. Gavin turns to her and fires, misses. She shoots back. The _BANG_ deafens Geoff. Gavin's shoulder thuds against the door. He snarls. Blood blooms up through the white of his jacket sleeve.

He empties the clip into Jack from across the room.

Her back hits the wall. Her eyes are glassy, mouth gaping. Geoff can't look away. She slides to the floor and doesn't move again. Her eyes stay open.

"Oh, _fuck,"_ Geoff squeaks. He doesn't mean to. The words just happen. Gavin's gun turns to him, Gavin's face twisted with rage. Geoff drops to the kitchen floor just as the bullet whizzes past. He fumbles for his own gun. There's footsteps.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" he spits. He scrambles. The kitchen island isn't big enough. Gavin doesn't hurry. He doesn't need to.

_Z_ _z_ _ip,_ and pain explodes through Geoff's leg. He screams. Gavin shoots out his other knee and he screams again. He claws backwards with one hand, pulls out his gun with the other. He can't breathe. The pain is unbearable. There are no thoughts in his head.

Gavin kicks the gun out of his hand the moment he draws it. Geoff yelps. Gavin kicks him, _hard,_ and then again and again. Geoff can't get his feet underneath him. Every movement nearly blacks him out with pain. He can't stand to pull his legs up, can barely shield himself with his hands, locked up rigid.

The suppressed pistol clatters on the linoleum. Gasping, Geoff drags himself back, smearing blood. He looks up at Gavin. There's a knife in his hand.

"No," Geoff begs. "No, no, no no no—"

"You don't bloody _fire_ people in this line of work, luv," Gavin growls. He advances. Geoff bumps into something and screams. Pain lights him up red. Gavin swoops down on him, vulturous.

_"Fuck, fuck you, fuck—"_ He claws at Gavin, shoves and flails and punches. Gavin takes one hard to the jaw. Pain rips through Geoff's other shoulder. He screams again. There's blood. There's so much fucking blood.

"You can't bloody _fire_ me!" Gavin shrieks, and stabs him again, again and again, shallow and fast. Blood everywhere. Blinding pain.

Geoff fights as hard as he can. He lands another hard hit on Gavin's head, and Gavin bashes him in the temple with the hilt of the knife. Geoff's vision whites out, his ears ring, the room spins. The next thing he knows, Gavin grabs his hand, wrenches hard on his wrist.

The knife grates against bone. Geoff can't even scream, too full of pain for air. The joint parts, tendons snap and recoil. Gavin saws and pries and twists. Geoff blacks out for a second, a merciful instant.

When he comes back, he can't feel his hand at all.

"Please," he blubbers, because Gavin still has the knife, because Gavin's still holding his hand, because of the blood and the fear and _nobody else is moving, why isn't anyone else moving...._

"Yes," Gavin hisses. "More of _that._ Grovel. Beg me to kill you."

He can't. All he can say is _please,_ and he does. There's nothing else, it _hurts,_ it hurts so much and he doesn't want to die and he can't think and there's nothing he can do except—

_"Please, God, please, please—"_

"Sorry, _Geoffrey,"_ Gavin says, kneeling on Geoff's elbows and digging Geoff's phone out of his pocket. "You've not quite outlived your usefulness yet."


	11. Look What You Made Me Do

It's an absolute bloodbath.

Ryan comes into Geoff's penthouse flat one toe at a time. His hands are shaking. His vision blurs. It's like a dream, like watching the world through a pane of warped and tinted glass. There's blood everywhere, smears and pools of it, splatters on the walls and furniture. He puts a hand over his mouth and nose in a vain attempt to block out the stench. He cannot, will not, cover his eyes.

Michael is on the floor by the window. The back of his head is gone. There are brains all over the glass, brains and blood. Lindsay is crumpled next to him, stretched out on the floor. Ryan counts four holes in her back, exit wounds.

There are bullet holes by the door. Someone tried to shoot back. Maybe it was Jack. She's sitting at the bottom of a long smear of blood, up against the wall. Her eyes are still open. Her Hawaiian shirt is ruined.

Most of Geoff is on the throw rug.

And in the armchair, his golden Deagle in one hand and a knife in the other, blood up to his elbows and spattered gruesome across his face, slouched and insolent and impatient, is Gavin.

"Oh, God," Ryan wheezes, because there's no air in him, because there's nothing else. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

"Hallo, love," Gavin says quietly. "You've missed the festivities."

"Gavin. Gavin, what—what—" He has no words. He can't process it. It can't be real. Any second now, they'll get up, any second now it'll all be laughs and squibs and—and—

The hand that's lying on the floor at Ryan's feet has distinctive, faded tattoos. The smell, the smell of blood and fear and piss and shit, is unmistakeable.

"I hate getting my hands dirty," Gavin says. "I bloody hate it, you know. But since _somebody_ wasn't answering his phone, I've had to do everything myself. It does raise the question, love: where have you been?"

His heartbeat kicks up to a whine. His hands shake. He can't breathe.

"Gavin—"

"I'd like an answer please, Ryan," says Gavin. "And while you're at it, you could mention what the bloody hell is on your _neck._ _"_

There's no point in lying. There's never been any point in lying. He shouldn't have come. He should have run, like Jeremy said. Gavin was never going to let him save anyone. He probably killed Geoff the moment he hung up. He just called so Ryan would come.

God, but he's well-trained.

"I'm sorry," Ryan whispers.

Gavin gets to his feet. He tucks the Deagle into its holster, drops the knife on the floor with a _clang._ He crosses to Ryan and kisses him. Ryan can only stand there and tremble, tears crawling down his cheeks. He can taste blood.

When the knife pierces his belly, he knows its one of his own.

"Not yet," Gavin growls, while Ryan doubles over gasping. He fists a hand in Ryan's hair and twists the knife and Ryan cries out. "But you're about to be. Come on, love. We're goin' for a cheeky drive."

"No—no—" he gasps. The pain is so intense he can't think, can't move. He fumbles at Gavin and Gavin jerks on the knife, _hard._ There's a horrific _ripping_ sound. Ryan's knees give out. Gavin hauls him upright again, while Ryan clutches at the gash in his belly, hands slick with blood, desperately trying to hold his guts in.

"Sorry, love," Gavin says, dragging him to the door by his elbow. "That wasn't a choice."

They move towards the door. It opens before they get there. In the half-second pause, the instant of realization and recognition that passes between Gavin and Jeremy, Jeremy and Gavin, Ryan has time for only one thought.

_Not again._

He shoves Gavin as hard as he can. Gavin goes sprawling. Ryan goes after him, eyes on the knife. Jeremy throws himself through the door.

The gunshot is shattering. It takes Ryan's legs out from under him. He falls on Gavin. The Deagle goes off again. Agony explodes in Ryan's shoulder. He strikes Gavin hard, as hard as he's always wanted to. Gavin goes muzzy for a second. Ryan wrenches the gun from his hand. It's soaked in blood.

The knife hits him between the ribs. He feels the lung go. He grabs Gavin by the face and bashes his head into the floor. The knife twists. Ryan gasps and stiffens. Gavin yanks on the knife but it's stuck. He grunts, shrieks, thrashes under Ryan, and the pain is unbearable.

Ryan grabs him by the throat, both hands, thumbs digging into his trachea. The sounds cut off in a gurgle and crunch, the thrashing goes full-body. Gavin rips the knife out, steel against bone, stabs at Ryan in a frenzy while his other hand claws at Ryan's wrists. His face starts to turn red, then blue. The pain is an afterthought. Ryan can feel his guts spilling out onto Gavin's body, his blood soaking through his clothes.

The strikes get shallower. Gavin's eyes bug out, his tongue swells up in his mouth. Ryan squeezes, harder and harder. His knuckles pop, one of his thumbs dislocates. Gavin's chest heaves at nothing. His hips buck, heels thud against the floor.

Eventually, the knife falls from his hand. Eventually, he goes still.

Ryan's hands are stiff. He has to pry them off Gavin's throat, off the trachea made concave by their squeezing. He picks up the knife.

He plunges it into Gavin's face until his vision starts to dim.

When he drags himself across the floor, he drags his entrails behind him, long loops of pale flesh marinated in blood. Every breath gurgles. He can barely see.

But he can see Jeremy.

Ryan heaves himself to his side. Jeremy lies on his back on the floor. Ryan takes his face in his hands. Jeremy's head turns, ever so slightly. Ryan laughs, as much as he can with so little breath left in him.

"You're . . . gonna be fine," he mumbles, blood oozing over his lips. He kisses Jeremy's lips, runs a hand through his hair. Chips of bone drag against his fingers, blood smears. "Gonna be fine, J. Gonna be . . . gonna be. . . ."

He lays his head down, murmuring into what's left of Jeremy's ear. The numbness starts in his toes, his fingers. Although his arm is resting on Jeremy's chest, he can't feel him breathing.

"Sorry," Ryan whispers, while his vision dims, while the pain fades. "Sorry. Thank you. Sorry."

Jeremy might respond; he can't hear anything but a rising roar.

Just before it all goes dark, one last thought bursts in his head, a popping bubble of endorphins, iridescent.

Wherever he's going, he's _never_ going see Gavin again.

 

**THE END**


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